drpswfandomcom-20200214-history
Elyan Marne
DM Handle Description Eye Color: Green, Shine as emeralds in the morning sun. Hair Color: Brown/Red Height: 5'8" Weight: 210 Age: 19 Place of Origin: Caemlyn, Andor Stats Rank: Trainee Warder Weapon Score: 2 Paths and Disciplines: Not Chosen Yet Primary Weapon: Not Chosen Yet Secondary Weapon: Not Chosen Yet Tertiary Weapon: Not Chosen Yet History Body Type: Muscular Personality: Relies only on himself, slow to trust others around him. Likes to approach a problem from all sides, and think it through before making a decision. Is dedicated to the point of flaw, and will stop at nothing once his heart is set. Brief History: Repositioning the rag he had tied around his neck to keep the noonday sun from scorching his already raw neck, Elyan was finally able to see the glimmer on the horizon rising to incredible heights and speaking, to all those that could see it, of the incredible power that lay within. It was so close, The White Tower, his goal, but already he felt the lead in his legs, he had only a sip of water that morning, and couldn’t remember the taste of food. Spotting a copse of trees off the road, he made his way there to lay down, a few moments rest was all he needed, then he would move again. Placing his head on a small pile of leaves, he could only close his eyes and try not to think of the hardships he had already faced on his journey. Unbidden the thoughts still came in a torrent of bad memories. He had been a servant in the house of Marne, getting something from the storeroom, he could not remember what, when his mother had come bursting in through the door. She looked flustered and carried a large pack, which she thrust in his arms and told him in hurried whispers that he needed to run, forget everything here and run. He had not understood what she meant, but she gave him a letter saying that it explained everything, and propelled him out the door with a push. Confused he had made his way to an alley, sat on the ground and opened the letter. As he struggled to make out the words, he was astounded by what they said. The woman who he thought was his mother was actually not, his real mother had been a minor noble in the house, it did not give a name, and that he was thought to have been conceived during Aiel war with a Saldaean soldier, if his mother’s husband had seen his green eyes, he probably would not have made it out of the crib. Given to a servant to raise, he had spent the next 12 years cleaning what was his family’s clothes and floors. This did not sit well with him. The end of the letter stated that his identity had been discovered. It told him to leave, to go somewhere they couldn’t find him. Signed, from who he had thought was his mother, with love, which until now he thought that he had returned. He shook his head, regardless of who she was, she had cared for him, she was his mother. He spent the next seven years living off the streets, learning to scrounge a living off scraps, a rat if he could find it, and dodging the knives of cut-purses. He was fair handy with a knife himself, he had to learn quick, but had never touched a sword, a sword made someone a target. Much better to try and remain hidden and stay quiet, he had been a clumsy boy, but a few years on the street kill anyone that can’t adapt. He feared to go to the Queen’s Bounty, thinking he might be spotted there. He kept to the shadows, to the alleyways, and lived one day to the next. Then he saw them, a noblewoman walking down an alleyway, with one lone guard. He shook his head, they were asking for trouble, which found them as he glanced back. He thought he might be able to help, but before he could blink, the man had dropped two, and another was held suspended in mid-air. An Aes-sedai and her Warder, he was amazed at their skill, what he wouldn’t give to be able to stop people from doing that, perhaps make a difference. Bah, he spat, like that would ever happen. Well, why couldn’t it, the Warder’s didn’t start as excellent swordsmen, maybe they could use a fellow like him. He could certainly use them, especially if they had food that was better than rats. He had left the next day, hoping he was moving in the right direction, he had little more than the clothes on his back, and a knife tucked in his sleeve, but he would make it. That was until a cut-purse decided to filch a nobleman’s coin purse, and have the guards blame him. He was chased halfway there, for several days before he could lose them, and didn’t have time to hunt while on the run. Still, he had made it, or just about, the tower stood on the horizon. Forcing himself to his feet, and focusing on putting one foot in front of the other, he made his way down the path, trying to think the food they might serve at the tower. At this point, he would even take dead rats. Category:Warder Bios Category:Biographies Category:Trainee Category:WS 2